


Three Minutes To Midnight

by lovemyway (vesper93)



Series: Stolen Moments [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Body Worship, Cute, Desire, First Time, Fluff, Gay Virgin, I wrote a teen rated thing, Kissing, M/M, Midnight, Oliver's POV, Sort Of, Virginity, see I can do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper93/pseuds/lovemyway
Summary: The lead up to midnight, from Oliver's perspective.





	Three Minutes To Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> A comment on "Kill Me Slowly" made me think about the moments we don't get to see in the movie/book, and one of them that struck me was that we don't get to really see how Oliver's feeling in the lead up to midnight. So I wrote this short and fluffy piece imagining it. What moments that are missing would you have liked to have seen? Let me know, and I might do a one shot about it! xxx

He was standing alone in the warmth of the night, letting the gentle breeze and the sound of the cicadas wash over him. The trees around the villa were rustling slightly in the movement of the air, adding to the orchestral arrangement of the night.

The stillness and quietness of the dark was in sharp contrast to the knot of turmoil that was currently writhing around in his gut.

_What the fuck was he thinking?_

He took another drag on his lit cigarette, trying to let the deep breath and the curling smoke calm his lungs. He knew that he looked calm on the outside, and right now he needed to at least look the part, whether he felt it or not. He knew that Elio was relying on him.

_Grow up. Meet me at midnight_.

Why the hell had he said that? Now that he repeated the words back to himself in his head they sounded so cliché, so utterly kitsch. And what was he going to do now that he had said it? He knew exactly what he _wanted_ to do; wanted to do it with every fibre of his body, had done for weeks now, ever since he’d touched the other boy at the volleyball game. Whether he should or not, was a different matter. That was if Elio showed up of course. Maybe he would be the one to chicken out.

Then he heard the door behind him, and he knew that that wasn’t the case. The door had already been open, but Elio needed to push it slightly to come and join him on the balcony. He slid into the empty space next to him, not talking. Oliver could see out of his peripheral vision that Elio was wearing one of those baggy white t-shirts, of which he seemed to have many, and his regular shorts. He could also see the glint of the Star of David necklace around his throat, the moonlight just catching off the chain. It hadn’t escaped Oliver’s notice that the other boy had only started to wear it since he had arrived.

They didn’t speak, but as Elio placed his hand on the railing, Oliver let his hand drift across, to rest lightly on top of the other boy’s. His skin was soft, barely a hair upon the back of his hand or his knuckles. He gently rubbed his thumb across the back of that smooth skin, feeling how Elio reacted under his touch. He wanted to touch so much more of him, but if there was the slightest hint that any of this was too much, then he would back off. Elio’s breath, and slight lean into him, told him that he should continue. There was a nervous energy about the other boy, like a spring waiting to suddenly uncoil.

He turned slightly towards the slighter boy, wanting nothing more than to reach and to take hold of him, but he knew that if this were to happen, then it had to be Elio who made the first move, who dictated the actions of the night. Much like he had the other day at the berm, when Oliver, despite his inclinations screaming at him to do otherwise, had desisted. Elio took hold of his hand then, turning his palm upward to do so. It was then Oliver felt the callouses on the pads of his fingers; from years of playing guitar and the piano. Every other part of his hand was soft, except for there. It made him wonder about other parts of Elio’s body; would they be soft to the touch, or hard?

The other boy turned away, a brief look over his shoulder to tell Oliver he should follow, and led the way into the darkness of the corridor. Would they go to his room, or to the one which Oliver had taken over for the summer? It made sense of it to be the room that Oliver was staying in; as there were two beds which he had pushed together, rather than the skinny single that occupied the spare room. Again, he would let Elio choose, but the brunette made his way to the room Oliver was in, creeping down through the darkness on his tiptoes. Oliver’s eyes were drawn to the arch of his foot, in view as he crept on his toes, the flash of the moonlight against that pale skin that so rarely saw the light of day or the flash of the moon, now visible to his eyes.

The door to the bedroom was open, as Elio led the way, before Oliver moved past him. Oliver leaned back against the footboard, taking another drag on the cigarette between his fingers, pulling some oxygen back into it, so that the end glowed in the dark. Elio stood in front of him, halfway between his parted legs, not moving, and seemingly not breathing either. To fill the need for movement, or for words, Elio took the cigarette from him, smoking it down to the end, before stubbing it out on a saucer on the nearby windowsill and dropping it there. Oliver watched the languid way his lips wrapped around the cigarette end, and the fact that the other boy never took his eyes from his as sucked the smoke deep into his body.

Oliver looked down at him, having not moved, ‘You okay?’

Elio looked back at him, the white column of his throat taking on a translucent quality in the pale light from the moon.

‘Me okay,’ he whispered, before leaning in and hugging himself to Oliver’s body, arms and legs around him. It was awkward and Oliver could do nothing but hold him, draw him in, pull him as close as he possibly could, the ratty white t-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of his stomach.

He pulled him around so that they both sat down on the bed, side-by-side, more controlled. He reached out and gave the still open door a slight push, which caused Elio to leap up quickly and attempt to catch it. But it was too late; the door slammed in its frame, carried slightly be the breeze. Elio immediately doubled over, cringing, his hands wringing in immediate despair. Oliver couldn’t help but grin slightly at this endearing sight; he doubted any of the other houses residents had thought anything of it, but his boy was on high alert, listening for anything untoward.

After a moment, Elio turned back and sat down on the bed, letting his foot drift across and sit on top of Oliver’s, in a mimicry of what their hands had been doing on the balcony just outside. He watched as Elio’s foot gently moved on top of his, not wanting to disturb the boy as he found out exactly where he was prepared to go, and what he was prepared to do.

He chuckled at the thought that crossed his mind, ‘You’re not going to get a nosebleed on me now, are you?’

Elio looked across at him, scandalised, ‘I’m not, going to, what-’

And then he was in his lap, kneeling up, and Oliver’s hands were on his back, holding him, catching him. He could now see the shirt, up close and personal, it was his Talking Heads one, faded after so many times through the wash and under Mafalda’s iron.

He was too tall like this for Oliver to kiss him, and that was no good, so he pulled him down into a sitting position, knees either side of his thighs, so that he could capture his mouth with his own. Elio was eager, his mouth opening under his, wanting to taste him, to touch him, in all the new ways he was just beginning to discover. He reached the hem of the boy’s shirt, not breaking their kiss, other than to mutter ‘off, off, off’, against his lips, still moving determinedly against his mouth.

And then he flipped them over, so that he was above the boy, and Elio with his back to the mattress. He tugged off his own shirt by the collar, throwing it haphazardly away onto the floor, as Elio’s hands came up to explore his skin. Now nothing mattered, none of his insecurities, none of his worries, because he was here, in bed with this boy, who wanted this just as much as he did. He wanted to touch every inch of the boy’s body, to worship the expanse of pale skin beneath his hands, and to make Elio feel things he’d never dreamed were possible before this moment. He leant down to kiss him again, spreading the boy’s legs so he could lie between them, a look of apprehension yet promise flitting across Elio’s perfect face. He had to take it slow, this was all new to the boy, and everything was both wonderful and scary. He would take his time; it didn’t matter, they had all night. It was, after all, just gone midnight.


End file.
